


Unpublished Drafts

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, John Watson's Blog, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining John Watson, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sherlock isn't good at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10285163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: Sherlock stumbles upon the unpublished drafts of John's blog.





	

John's blog had a touch of romanticism initially, not unlike the man himself. He believed one day he would find the right ‘woman’ and settle down with a family. He may have been bisexual, but he had a preference for women and believed he’d rather start a family with a female rather than another man. It seemed to be other men were merely sexual gratification while he tried to emotionally connect with women. It took Sherlock all of a night to realise this about John. It wasn’t discouraging to him initially; John was a great friend and that was all Sherlock wanted from him.

He laughed at John’s fantastical, over-romanticised descriptions, much to John’s chagrin. The way he talked about the man he now lived with, how odd he was, how ‘mad’ he was, it was amusing to say the least. John’s writing style fit him. His descriptions, sometimes long-winded and repetitive to exaggerate certain aspects, it suited him.

His typing, however, was maddening to Sherlock. He couldn’t stand watching John peck away at the keys with his two index fingers. “Honestly, John, using the rest of your fingers makes it so much more efficient.” 

“What do you care?” John would snap in return. Sherlock would leave him be with a slight huff. If he wanted to spend hours typing a mere five hundred words, then so be it.

Sherlock refused to read his blog, at least at first. Why should he read through a simplified version of a case he already solved? But after a few comments directed towards John’s blog—and not his own, frustratingly—he decided to read through _one_ retelling of a case.

‘A Study in Pink,’ atrocious title, Sherlock thought. It took him another week to motivate himself—become bored enough to actually consider reading this an alternative—to get past the title. Had John been awake at three in the morning, he would have heard the indignant splutters of a sulky, bored consulting detective doing his best not to toss the offending laptop with John’s blog open out the window. He almost, _almost_ stormed into John’s room to demand an explanation for this blog entry. John had managed to describe _something_ but missed everything of importance, of course.

By morning, Sherlock had read every blog entry John had written in the last five months since they’d met and moved into Baker Street. At least, Sherlock thought to himself, the entries were consistently awful.

John didn’t like hearing Sherlock’s criticism. “How can you keep a record of our cases when you clearly don’t observe everything?” He’d been in another mood and felt that picking at John’s writing would be a suitable time-waster. John hadn’t thought so.

Sherlock kept reading the blog entries, regardless. He tried to keep his complaints to a minimum but his will power wasn’t so strong that he could refrain from leaving a snide comment here or there. John would either be goaded into a bit of a fight or he’d just ignore Sherlock, depending on his mood. It worked for them, somehow.

He’d been listening to John’s infuriating typing all day, something about catching up with detailing cases. The slow clacking only served to remind Sherlock of his boredom and Lestrade’s broken promise of bringing over that one case he’d been interested in. Lestrade had insisted it was a cold case, several decades old, nothing to be done about it, but at least it would have been _something_.

By the time John had gone to bed, he had finished several cases but kept them as drafts, Sherlock noted as he took John’s laptop. Sherlock wasn’t too interested in that, but rather getting into Mycroft’s new personal email account. He’d figure out it was Sherlock eventually, but he would have to trace it back to John’s laptop first.

Only after he finished that did he turn his attention back to the minimized window of John’s blog. Curiously, he looked over a recently edited draft of ‘The Aluminium Crutch.’ He had two copies of this particular case. The most recent was just a transcription of the voicemails Sherlock had left him. Admittedly, he’d called John a grand total of fifteen times while John was supposed to be on a date, but it was an interesting case!

The other draft included more input from John. It wasn’t input on the case, per se, but rather input on the man solving the case, on Sherlock. John was actually good at conveying his own emotion through his writing, he had to admit that much. So, even Sherlock picked up on the frustration expressed in the first paragraph describing how each text message alert and ringing of his mobile upset his partner for the evening. He turned it off, eventually, but it had been too late to save the date. He blamed Sherlock for about two sentences then turned the blame on himself for not turning his mobile off before the date even began, for letting Sherlock get this far, for letting Sherlock get to him, for…falling for the madman.

Sherlock blinked at the screen. That wasn’t right. John—no, that couldn’t be what he meant. He continued reading.

‘…he gets so excited over odd things like these. Most people would be frustrated if presented with such a challenge, but Sherlock Holmes thrives on it. The way his voice pitches up when explaining his thought process, the way he seeks praise for noticing something the rest of us had missed. No one else notices _him_. They just notice his result. They find his excitement odd and unnatural, therefore he is odd and unnatural.’

Well, John spent a lot of time delving into Sherlock rather than focusing on the case. It wasn’t a surprise this was just a draft. He couldn’t honestly be thinking of publishing this?

Sherlock clicked out of that draft but looked through others, his curiosity piqued. Many of the recently published cases had a draft by the same title. Had Sherlock discovered this before, he would have thought nothing of it. So, John typed a draft first. That would be smart if his writing had actually improved at some point—but it didn’t—or it didn’t take him two hours to type something that took an average person a mere twenty minutes. So, why did John waste his time on drafts?

Sherlock clicked on the link labelled ‘The Geek Interpreter [Draft]’ only to be met with a screen asking for a password. Trivial. It took him two minutes. At least John had gotten better at picking his passwords. Or maybe he cared more about these drafts than he did his mobile or laptop.

John explained the set-up to the case exactly as he had in the published version, but he went further into detail about the notion of comic books and superheroes and his ‘dreaded’ trip to the comic shop. He also included an excruciatingly detailed depiction of their ‘ninja’ attires, or rather Sherlock’s attire that had even Sherlock blushing. Curiously, he continued browsing through the drafts.

‘The Woman’ hadn’t contained much information, as Mycroft wouldn’t have let John publish sensitive information to the public. But the draft was much, much longer.

‘Sherlock began acting odd before we even so much as met her. Even skimming her lurid webpage pictures seemed to have an effect on him. Then again, someone like _her_ , who wouldn’t be affected…When we arrived, he insisted on showing up to her door in a panic. He insisted I punch him in the face. Why he thought I would do so easily was beyond me, but upon being attacked by _him_ , instinct kicked in.

‘The sexual tension between the two of them was practically palatable. Whether or not Sherlock ‘knew where to look,’ she didn’t exactly give him, or me for that matter, much choice. Sherlock barely took his eyes off her. Then again, he was there to get the pictures back and that would be it. Neither of us would have to spend another minute with _The Woman_.

‘I should have known the moment she bested Sherlock Holmes that that wouldn’t be the end. There was no way Sherlock would allow it to end like that, especially being so enamoured with her.’

Enamoured? With Irene Adler? Sherlock supposed in some way he had been. It was something interesting, much more interesting than he’d initially thought it would be.

‘He never changed that bloody ringtone. Time and time again, I would hear it, even from my room in his. I never understood why he didn’t just change the offensive sound. There wasn’t any possibility that he had a crush on her…was there? He couldn’t have…can’t have… Why her? What was so special about her?’

John must have had the idea that Sherlock found her attractive. While that may have been true, it wasn’t that he found her attractive in the physical, conventional way, as John would understand it. There was something different, something oddly sensual about playing the game.

It was clear John’s concern went past friendly concern for Sherlock’s mental wellbeing. He’d been hurt by the idea he could be pushed aside so easily. But he hadn’t meant to push John aside, he may have just taken it for granted that John would still be there when The Woman ceased to be interesting anymore.

These drafts continued for some time. John had been harbouring these feelings for months, for over a year. Sherlock didn’t know how to process this information nor did he know what to do with it. So, he closed the windows, shut the computer off, and pulled his violin out from under his chair. He removed it from the case and rested it in his lap, a comforting, reassuring weight over his pyjama-clad legs.

The darkness was beginning to fade to a blue in the early morning. He was sure he would sleep eventually during the day, but his thoughts were quick and undiscernible as he skimmed his fingers over the tense strings and smooth wood. It wasn’t until pale yellow light began filtering through the window that he lifted the instrument to his shoulder and pulled the bow in a long, sombre note. Upon receiving no response (who in their right mind would respond to anything this early in the morning?), he let his fingers lethargically move from note to prolonged note.

It wasn’t lovely or beautiful sounding. It was real, though. Sherlock breathed with each note and let his eyes close. Gradually, the tempo increased until he decided to maintain the languid three-four time, something that sounded vaguely like a waltz.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John had been lying awake for hours and upon hearing the first note, made his way halfway down the stairs until he could see Sherlock’s silhouette in the soft morning light. It was moments like these Sherlock played his emotions and John could pretend for just a few moments that he understood him, that he opened himself up in a way he wasn’t able to any other way. He had to know John could hear it. Hell, he had played until John was asleep on several occasions.

God, he looked beautiful like this. He wasn’t sulking or moody. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone or managing to piss someone off. He wasn’t putting on a show. This was Sherlock Holmes. This was the man no one else got to see. This was the man John fell madly in love with, this oblivious, brilliant madman.

 

It was another two months and three published cases before Sherlock let it slip about reading the drafts. He’d made a comment about John’s focus not being on the case but rather on Sherlock himself and John _blushed_. Before either could make another comment, they were off and bounding after a criminal.

John was lying in bed later that night when he realised. Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his back to the room when John clambered down the stairs.

“How did you know?” John demanded. Sherlock was jolted out of a light slumber.

“What?” He stretched and sprawled out on his stomach instead. “I thought we went over this,” he murmured into the cushion.

“You must have read them.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock groaned.

“You accused me of focusing more on you than the information.”

“I was merely teasing, John.”

“You don’t tease, not like that.”

“Fine. Yes. I read them.”

“You must think I’m pathetic,” it was John’s turn to groan.

“It was… They were…dare I say, endearing?”

“Stop trying to make it better.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Sherlock officially gave up on sleep and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“When?” John demanded.

“Ages ago.”

“Listen, I know you’re not… Well, you’re you—“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked, indignant.

“You don’t love.”

Why was it that declaration felt painful to Sherlock? Was it simply John dismissing him so easily?

“I’m not so unaffected by you, John,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “I would find your absence to be quite upsetting.”

“You don’t have to placate me.”

“I’m not trying to. You’re not a child. I’m trying to explain—“

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Yes, John, I do. You won’t understand otherwise.” There was a pause; Sherlock wanted John’s full attention. “I don’t know what it’s like to love like you do. You want so much.”

At that, John looked crestfallen. Sherlock continued.

“You’re different, though, from anyone else I have ever met. I can’t tell you why as I don’t know, myself. But this may just be as close to loving someone as I will ever get.”

John looked confused. “So, this is okay? Continuing on as if nothing happened?”

“I want you. I want to be the one you drop everything for, the one you return to after all is said and done.”

“Sherlock, you have that now. You know you do.”

“I don’t want it now. I want it now, later, and indefinitely. I want you to continue looking at me as if I’m the most brilliant person you’ve ever met. I want you to keep whispering those praises you try to not say at all. I want to try to be what you want.” At this, Sherlock rose and invaded John’s space. A hand wrapped around John’s wrist, fingertips pressed against the veins on the inside of his wrist. Gently, lips brushed his cheek. Oh, they felt soft and feathery light against his cheek.

“You have it, you ridiculous man. You always have.” John looked up to Sherlock knowing full well his reactions were being catalogued. Throwing caution to the wind, John leaned forward as his fingertips brushed along Sherlock’s soft wrist. Suddenly the warm body in front of him had withdrew enough to allow cold air to rush between them.

“I’ve never… I never wanted to,” Sherlock felt self-conscious admitting to John he’d never kissed or been kissed. John smiled encouragingly and pulled them back together by their still-connected wrists. He lifted his other hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek and run his thumbpad over his bottom lip. His hand moved to the back of Sherlock’s neck, the sensation making him shiver, and John pulled him down to press their lips together.

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t close and he didn’t know how to hold himself, but John wasn’t discouraged. He broke off the chaste kiss with a soft chuckle and pressed another kiss to his cheek before Sherlock leaned back up. Their hands on each other’s wrist slid until their palms were pressed together and long fingers began stroking the back of a hand slowly.

The sound of a mobile broke their attention, or rather, took Sherlock’s attention away. He glanced at the device on the table just a couple of meters away before he looked back at John. With another chuckle, he pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s and nodded towards the mobile. “Go on. I know you want to.”

Sherlock grinned and leaned down to give John a quick peck on the lips. He missed, hit the corner of John’s mouth, tried again, then reached for his mobile.

“Anything good?”

“Mh, no.” He plopped down on the sofa and began typing out a response. John hesitated a moment before lowering himself into the spot next to Sherlock. He was surprised to feel a warm hand against his own after the mobile had been set aside. With a yawn, John pulled Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders and leaned into the man beside him.

“You’re tired,” he pointed out.

“Brilliant deduction,” John mumbled with a bit of a smile. He felt fingers carding through his hair.

“You should go to bed,” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper but John could feel the vibrations when Sherlock leaned towards him.

“You should come to bed with me.” John didn’t think about the implications of that statement until after it’d already been said. Sherlock thought nothing of it when he tentatively agreed.

John reluctantly removed himself from under Sherlock’s arm and led him up to his room. Sherlock laid with his back to John and took up as little room as possible while John settled in behind him. He pressed a soft kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck as he slid his arm under Sherlock’s to hold him. Contently, Sherlock wrapped his own hand around John’s. This was new. This was unexpected. John’s body pressed lightly against his back; it was warm and pleasant, unlike any other time he’d been this close to someone. The kiss had tickled. So did the hot breath he could feel at about the same place on his neck.

It took a while for both of them to relax enough to sleep. It wasn’t until John’s breathing had deepened and slowed that Sherlock found himself able to mimic his breathing pattern and slip off into slumber.

 

When John woke, the other side of the bed was empty. He thought for a moment that he’d had another vivid dream but something told him otherwise. There was also a text on his phone, sent sometime during the morning.

_‘Busy day. Dinner? -SH’_

John hesitated but eventually relented and responded with flirtation. _‘Sherlock Holmes, are you asking me out on a date?’_ He didn’t receive an answer for quite some time.

 _‘Yes. -SH’_ Another text followed almost immediately. _‘Is that a yes? -SH’_

 _‘Of course,’_ John had typed out, deleted, retyped out, then changed to a simple, _‘Yes.’_ Honestly, to let someone get to him this much, ridiculous. Yet he couldn’t help the giddy feeling of having this out in the open. He’d never thought he’d get asked out by _Sherlock Holmes_.

This time, there was no argument when the candle was placed on their table. Under the table, John felt Sherlock’s ankle against his own. John had his full attention, which was unsettling at times. His gaze felt calculating, as if he was scanning over every little detail he could in the dim setting.

John watched curiously as Sherlock tentatively slid his hand towards his own. With a jerky movement, he grabbed John’s hand too tightly then loosened his grip. John pulled his hand out from under Sherlock’s and brushed his fingers over his knuckles.

“I wasn’t lying, you know,” Sherlock said as he watched John take another bite, “when I said this wasn’t my area. Relationships of any kind have been…difficult, to say the least.”

“As I said before, it’s fine,” John assured as he continued to stroke the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“And I can’t promise you I’ll always put you first. The work…”

“Sherlock, I know. I’m well-aware of your tendencies by now.” John met his gaze but Sherlock looked down at their hands.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he mumbled, barely above the din of the restaurant. It was unnatural to hear Sherlock’s voice so quiet and lacking the usual confidence he exuded.

“You haven’t exactly set high expectations for yourself,” John teased. Sherlock didn’t look up. “Honestly, Sherlock, it’s okay. I may not be able to read a person like you can, but I’ve lived with you long enough to know what I’m getting into. You don’t like repetition; how many other ways can I say ‘it’s fine’?”

Sherlock turned his hand over. John ran his finger over Sherlock’s warm palm in different patterns.

“You should eat, love,” John murmured.

“I never saw the appeal before,” Sherlock said, followed by a bite of food.

“Appeal of what?”

“Dinner. Well, dinner with someone else. Food was a means to an end, something that had to be done eventually. The timing is arbitrary. I never understood why people would consider dinner such an extravagant event that it should be shared with others.”

“It’s not so much dinner as the promise of more.” At least, to John it usually was. It meant spending the hours after the sun went down in the company of another person. There was something inherently romantic about having dinner with his partner.

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit before his expression returned to neutrality. “Ah, right. Dinner can be used as a pretence for sex.”

At this statement, it was John’s turn to look startled. “No, Sherlock, I didn’t mean—We don’t have to—I wasn’t suggesting.”

“Irene had.” He took another bite.

“I don’t think she wanted as much as you think she did.”

“It wasn’t out of love. It was out of curiosity. It was more of a power play than anything else. She wanted to know ‘what I liked.’ “ Sherlock sneered, as if it irritated him.

“Hold on. _You_ asked _me_ out to dinner.”

“I did. It isn’t often you’re on the receiving end. I want to be different than the rest.”

John choked back a laugh and swallowed what food he had in his mouth. “You are definitely different.” He had a teasing edge but he was mostly affectionate.

Sherlock’s nose crinkled. “I meant in ordinary ways. You like ordinary.”

“Maybe I’ve had enough of ordinary.” John’s finger brushed lightly down the middle of Sherlock’s palm, eliciting a slight shiver on Sherlock’s part. “Christ, you’re beautiful.” John lowered his gaze, somewhat embarrassed. Sherlock’s ability to completely tear down what filter John did have between his thoughts and mouth hadn’t faded in the slightest. A quick glance up revealed a blushing Sherlock. Smiling, he traced a slow circle along Sherlock’s palm.

“No one’s said that to me before,” Sherlock murmured in that small tone.

“Something you’ll have to get used to, love.”

Sherlock’s blush spread to his ears. Pet names were new, not unpleasant, Sherlock was happy to note. Oh, definitely not unpleasant. John slid his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist to feel his pulse increase enough for John to notice. When Sherlock finally did look up, the blush fading, he was met with a smile he’d never gotten from John. That was the smile he gave to others, his partners, the ones he said ‘I love you’ to, the smile he gave to Sherlock’s back when he was too busy to notice.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. It was one thing to read words on a webpage, even as romanticised as John’s words were. But it was another thing entirely, to be on the receiving end to that smile and those bright eyes. John was so expressive. He didn’t even realise it half the time. Words could be faked but that look, oh, that look could not. Sherlock was overwhelmed for a moment.

“Ordinary people are so weak,” Sherlock said as he turned his attention down toward his plate.

John laughed and resumed his drawing on Sherlock’s palm. “Perhaps it’s not weakness.”

“To be incapacitated by a mere look, that is weak.”

“And yet, love is a reason to fight. By that logic, it’s strength.”

“It’s _distracting_.”

John continued smiling. “Yes, it is. You’re always searching for the next distraction.”

“I think I’m done looking.”

John never imagined hearing such a thing from Sherlock. “Somehow, I doubt that,” John said fondly. Sherlock lifted his gaze with a bit of a smile.


End file.
